The Queen's Captive (45 page)

“Spoken like the heretic you are,” Mary cried. “A personal relationship with God—that is the depraved cant of all the heretic vermin. I have decreed that every one of them be burned to death like rats. And those in high places,” she said pointedly to Elizabeth, “will not escape the fire.”

Philip jumped to his feet. “Death to heretics, yes.”

Elizabeth felt the breath sucked out of her. Breath and strength and courage. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head low.
Mistress Thornleigh was wrong!
a voice inside her wailed.
And for her error, I am going to die.

“But you will live,” Philip said with a contempt that seemed to scald her, “and live to regret this answer. Amend it, madam. This instant. Or long life shall be yours, indeed—lifelong imprisonment at our pleasure.”

She did not speak. Could not speak for trembling.

“Captain of the guard,” Mary called out, triumphant. “Bring your men. Arrest this woman.”

“I promised you to my cousin,” Philip fumed, “and by God, you will not make a liar of me. He is a prince, and not to be trifled with. The negotiations are concluded. The marriage contract drawn up. Who are you to interfere in such matters of state?” Guards marched up to Elizabeth. Philip railed on. “It galls me to see you so ungrateful when I have agreed to a princely sum for your dowry and named you my wife’s heir. But this hard-won contract shall not be in vain. You will do your duty, and our will.”

Mary was staring at him in dismay. “My heir? My lord, our son shall be my heir.”

“And where is he, madam?” Philip said testily.

She looked stung. “God will bless us, soon.”

“Then at our son’s birth I shall rejoice. But in his absence provisions must be made.”

“My lord, forgive me, but this contract cannot stand.”

“Madam, these details are my concern.”

“Details? At my coronation God entrusted this realm to me.”

“And, with our marriage, to
me,
” he snapped. He beckoned the Spanish lord representing the Duke of Savoy. “Sir, come hither. We will conclude this matter.”

The man came forward so that Elizabeth, still on her knees, was flanked by him on her right side and the guards on her left. But all of them looked unsure of which monarch to obey. Elizabeth knew no better than they did—except to realize, in despair, that Philip, far from being her savior, had become as implacable an enemy as Mary.

“My lord,” Mary said. She looked agonized at contradicting her husband, but driven nonetheless. “The marriage cannot take place under these terms.”

“I have promised Savoy these terms,” Philip said hotly.

“Then you must renegotiate.”

“I have given my word.”

“And I have a duty to God. I will not allow this realm to fall into the grasp of a heretic. The bastard of a criminal who was punished as a public strumpet.”

Philip glared at her. “Your duty is to me, madam. As God ordained. I marvel that you forget that.”

She looked as if he had slapped her.

They both turned to Elizabeth. She felt a shift in the air so sudden, so powerful, it almost took her breath away. They were in a deadlock, and they needed her voice to break it.

“Consent, madam,” Philip told her. “Do it now, and you will be named heir to the throne.”

“Do not consent,” Mary said to her. “I
never
shall.”

Elizabeth fixed her eyes on her sister, astounded that Mary should need her on her side. Both monarchs stood waiting for her answer. The whole court was waiting.

She got to her feet. It surprised her to find that she was no longer trembling. Far from it—a new tide of strength rushed through her. Something in her quivered with pleasure at the sense of power. Her life, she saw, lay in her own hands.

27

Battle Lines

May 1558

A
year had changed the kingdom. When Philip had arrived last spring to ask his wife for money to fight the French, Mary had gone to the council to get it for him, but they had refused, unwilling to be drawn into Spain’s war. Furious, Philip told Mary that unless she persuaded them to release the money, he would leave England and never return to her. She, in turn, threatened the councilors with the loss of their estates and imprisonment, and they finally capitulated. Exploiting rumors of a French invasion, she then demanded their support for her to go a fateful step further by declaring war on France for her husband’s sake. By summer, England was at war. Philip planned his military campaign, and Mary basked in his satisfaction with her, selling thousands of acres of Crown property to raise additional cash for him. By the time he sailed away with ten thousand English soldiers and ten thousand cavalry, he left Mary elated at the certainty of being pregnant. At Christmas, joyfully, she let it be known that her heir would be born in March.

The campaign began well. Philip’s forces, commanded by the Duke of Savoy, along with Mary’s, commanded by the Earl of Pembroke, defeated the French at St. Quentin in such a resounding triumph that thousands of foot soldiers and dozens of the most prominent nobles of France were taken prisoner. Stirring successes in Italy followed, and victory seemed at hand. But England’s involvement in the war soon turned into catastrophe. For over two hundred years, since 1347, England had held the territory of Calais in France, the last remnant of the Anglo-French empire that dated from the Norman invasion, and this bridgehead to Europe was an essential conduit for English trade. Its complex of fortresses seemed impregnable, but on New Year’s Eve the French attacked, taking the English defenders by surprise, and Calais fell. The loss was a disaster for English merchants, and a national humiliation.

Even more devastating to Mary, she discovered she was mistaken about being with child—for the second time. Having believed she was pregnant right up to the ninth month, she became a laughingstock for anyone who dared to laugh. Even those who supported her shook their heads at her folly. Pamphlets of ridicule—and of sedition—multiplied. Mary cracked down, ordering that all such writings be burned and anyone found in possession hanged, and she stepped up her policy of exterminating heresy, burning religious dissenters on an average of one every five days. She avoided her council, ordering them to report to Cardinal Pole on the financial crisis, and she withdrew from public appearances. The government seemed rudderless. The country was insolvent. Philip had not returned.

Neutral ground. That’s what Frances had called it in her letter. Adam didn’t feel that way as he rode up to St. Botolph’s Church in Colchester with its adjoining new priory buildings, which looked almost finished. The walls of Frances’s grand project rose so high they eclipsed the sun and cast into shadow the squat houses of the poor people that barnacled the outer enclosure walls. By neutral she had meant neither Grenville nor Thornleigh, and he knew she intended to put him at ease by arranging this meeting in the priest’s rooms, but to Adam the Church was the lethal, long arm of the Queen, making this enemy territory. He did not want to be here, and would not stay long. Before dusk he had to rendezvous with his father and Lord Powys’s men to make his report and help unload the guns.

Frances opened the door, all smiles and blushes. For a moment he thought she might throw her arms around him, she looked so eager.

“Welcome home, sir.”

He bowed. “Madam.”

She laughed. “So serious. Don’t worry, we are alone. You may kiss me…if you like.”

She blushed so deeply, and looked so hopeful, Adam smiled in kindness. “I would not take such a liberty.”

“Oh, it is no liberty—we’re almost man and wife.”

He made the kiss brief. “The construction is going well, I see,” he said as he strode to the window that looked out at the priory works. Roofers atop the building destined to be the monks’ dormitory were crouched on the rafters, hammering, while others hauled sheets of lead. Glaziers on a scaffold tapped a stained glass window into place. “At this rate the brothers will be moving in by Michaelmas.”

“You have been away so long,” she said, coming to his side. “Tell me all. Where have you been, and what have you been doing?”

He looked at her.
In the Low Countries, organizing the exiles to join us.
“Just the dull business of trade,” he said. “Loading wool cloth, sailing in rain and fog, unloading in Antwerp. Coming back with cargos of pins and glass and leather. Nothing very exciting.”

“I have missed you so.”

He managed a smile. “What I want to know is what have
you
been doing? How is life at court? How fares Her Majesty?” It came out so blatant and blunt he was afraid she would turn on him in suspicion. He was not good at this business of spying. But she seemed to accept his question as one of natural concern for her royal friend.

“Melancholy, I’m afraid. She weeps a great deal. The baby, you know.”

Adam could not muster a kind word about the Queen’s phantom pregnancy. The woman was delusional and, given her hatred of her sister, her unbalanced state of mind threatened Elizabeth. Men throughout England were now preparing to bring down the Queen, but Adam’s worst fear was that she might strike at Elizabeth before they were ready.

“No sign of the King returning?” he asked. Again, too blatant. But he needed to get a sense of whether Philip might land Spanish forces to help the Queen fight a rebellion. If so, extra defenses would be needed.

“Come, drink, you must be hungry,” Frances said as she poured him a goblet of wine. He saw that the table was set for two. “I have ordered dinner for us,” she said brightly. “There is so much to discuss.”

“Discuss?”

Smiling, she handed him the goblet. “Our wedding day.”

He drank a quick swallow. The Queen was not the only woman who was delusional. The wedding was never going to happen, and not just because it was the last thing he wanted. Frances was too afraid of her brother. They both knew that Grenville would burn down his own house before he would let his sister marry a Thornleigh. Their secret betrothal was a dead end. Adam was not proud of leading Frances on to get the intelligence he needed. It felt craven. But lives were at stake. Elizabeth’s, and all the men organizing with his father. “Shall we eat?” he said.

They sat, she settling into the seat across from him as if they were already married, and she made a great fuss about serving him herself as the priest’s servants brought in dish after dish that she had obviously taken great pains to order. Oysters. Poached bream in saffron sauce. Roast venison with currants. Fresh figs. Strawberry tart. Adam ate without appetite. A memory glimmered of the humble supper of sausage and brown bread and beer that good yeoman Bent and his family had shared with him and Elizabeth when they had come in from the cold. Best meal he’d ever had. On the happiest day of his life.

“I am sorry for the Queen’s troubles,” he said. “And I hear that the royal council is little help to her.”

“Oh, their insolence infuriates me. All they do is squabble, right to her face.”

“About what?”

“Money, always money. They claim there is none. It can hardly be true.”

“Perhaps it is. The war must be a terrible drain. Imagine what it takes just to keep the fleet manned and afloat. Do you have any idea?”

“I know exactly. Fifteen thousand pounds a month.”

He probed deeper. “For how many men?”

“Pardon?” She was cutting slices of tart.

“How many sailors and gunners and soldiers on the ships?”

“Fourteen thousand, I’ve heard.”

“And they must have their daily ration of biscuit and two pots of ale and two pounds of beef, or there’d be mutiny. Hard to find money for all that.”

“The lord treasurer is trying to arrange loans in the Antwerp money markets.”

“At exorbitant interest rates, no doubt.” This was all useful information. The treasury sounded nearly bankrupt.

“Have some salad.” Handing him a dish of borage and radishes, she pointed to the blossoms that decorated it. “Rosemary flowers.” She asked coyly, “Do you know the message?”

Courtiers made much of the hidden meanings of flowers, he knew, but he had no idea what they were. Likely something about love.

“It means, I accept your love,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

She bantered on about the flowers and he waited for a chance to steer the talk to the Queen’s defenses. He said he hoped Her Majesty was ready in case of a French invasion, and asked what commanders the earl marshal had in place, and where. She mentioned some names, enough to be helpful intelligence to Adam, but her interest in the topic soon waned. “But here’s news,” she said cheerfully. “The Count of Feria, King Philip’s envoy, is in love with one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor, Jane Dormer. The Queen is openly promoting the match. Just think, Feria will marry Jane and take her back to Seville as his duchess.” She added, blushing, “I wish you and I could make it a double wedding.”

“Frances, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a little longer. Things are so unsettled. This war with France, and the unrest in Ireland. Unless,” he added, “the Irish situation looks like it will soon be resolved. What does your brother say? Has he enough troops to keep the peace?”

“Oh, it’s a quagmire there. Her Majesty had to send six thousand more soldiers, John says.”